Never be Brought Back to Life
by youkai chick supreme
Summary: Obviously it was a mistake to answer his call, to meet him at the bar, but that's never stopped Riku before. All common sense flew out of his mind where Sora was involved. Every single time.


A/n: A bit of angst to pass the time, and since no one is writing SoRi fics at the moment, now I have to! Keh. Title is based on an AFI song, "Bleed Black" which I do not own, duh.

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts doesn't belong to me, I'm not that creative sadly.

Dedicated to all the people who make writing fun, on this site and others. Especially dedicated to VP. Heh, you inspire me more than you will ever, ever know. And in my own, silent way, I love you still.

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The liquor burns down your throat as you swallow, not warm and smooth like you like it, but bitter, hot. It chokes you and a few tears spill out between your eyelashes as you gasp like a lightweight. A woman at the end of the bar, a right tarted up little red-head, laughs at you quietly.

The boy you came with hears her and is captivated by her tinkling-bell, or some other such bullshit, laugh; and you decide you hate her, stranger though she is.

You slam your glass down, muse angrily how dare he ignore you. The clink your glass makes upon contact drawing cerulean colored irises back to your face, the way you like it, the way it should be.

"Let's get out of here, hmm?" You whisper, drawing out your vowels and slurring your consonants together. But your garbled speech doesn't register. All you care about is getting as far away from that red-headed slut as possible.

Your date nods and fishes a few bills from his pocket along with a carton of menthols, your old brand. You quit cold turkey two months ago, but it's so tempting and you know how sexy you look when you're smoking. Hell, your fingers were practically made to hold a cigarette. And damn you want him to think that too, you want him to think you're sexy, so you bum one off of him and wait until the door opens to light it up and take a drag. It burns the back of your throat just the slightest bit, but it's a warm, familiar burn. You welcome it.

The walk to his apartment is a short one, just long enough to smoke your cigarette. The doorman recognizes you, even after all this time, and greets you by name, and then it's up five floors in a gilded elevator and last door to the right. You're both silent as he digs through his coat for the key and then, finding it, opens the door.

You follow him in and shrug out of your jacket and before you can even open the closet door to hang it up his hands are all over your chest, waist, hips. And you love every single touch from every single one of his too-cool fingertips.

"I don't love you." He murmurs against your delicate, porcelain colored neck, "Don't think this means I love you." And you crush your lips to his in response because words fail you, they always do.

There's a sharp pain in your chest but as he eases your shirt over your head but you choose to ignore it. Because you knew he never loved you. This is not a new development. He didn't love you six months ago and he doesn't love you now and you _knew_ he didn't. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less.

But you let him kiss you and touch you and hurt you in that insanely pleasurable way he's mastered. You let him make love to you without loving you at all. And you kiss back and glide your hands up and down his damp skin and mewl and pretend that the aching in your chest is just a passing thing and will be gone by sunrise. Just like him.

And when he's done you let him turn away from your body and fall asleep as you stare at the ceiling, as if it will reveal to you the big secret of how to make him love you. You close your eyes but you're wide awake and will be for hours.

When you glance at the clock hours later 4:23AM stares back unblinkingly. You shimmy and slide out of bed easily, soundlessly; and dress quickly. You pause at the door and take one last look around a room you used to know intimately, but he is already gone and you know you should be too. You shouldn't have met up with him and you sure as hell shouldn't have slept with him. And he'll never love you so one last look will have to suffice.

Finding your jacket strewn across his Persian rug, half under the coffee table, you pluck it up but are way too hot to put it on. You clutch it, loosely, and drift around his still hauntingly familiar apartment one last time.

Going to his desk you pick up a piece of his monogrammed memo paper, emblazoned with his name, title, and work address, and scribble a note about how you have an appointment that you forgot about last night, but that you don't regret it because last night was "nice" and that you'll call him sometime, but it's all just lie after lie. You know it and as soon as he takes one look at your abnormally uneven handwriting, he'll know it too.

Even still, you leave the note on his marble-topped table and show yourself to the door, closing it slowly and silently. Despite his malicious callousness, you still care. You always did and you know, deep down inside you just _know_, despite it all you always will care about him.

The doorman who greeted you has left, replaced with a new man with a pretty face and a mouth accustomed to smiling. He grins politely at you, as is his job, as he holds the door open for you, but you'll never see him again, and you don't need to be polite in return, so you just keep walking. You know someone as delicate looking as you shouldn't be roaming the streets at such an ungodly hour as this, but you want to be dangerous. You want to be reckless and stupid and you don't want to care anymore. But you do.

A dark skinned man on the corner three blocks from your apartment eyes you hungrily as you pass, and you feel more wanted in that one millisecond than you ever have in the years you wasted on _him_. He never looked at you with such dark, hooded glances. No, he just responded to yours and took you to bed.

Bed sounds amazing to you right now, you muse distantly. Because you are so far away from everything right now.

As you reach your building there is no doorman to greet you, no smiles. Still it's home and familiar as well, and you're used to being alone anyway, ever since you two broke up ages ago and Rox moved out three weeks ago. You're apartment really was too small for to grown men you think absentmindedly.

After the five flights up and to the left, all by foot, no gilded elevators for you here, the key sticks in the lock again, and you have to use your shoulder-turned-battering ram to open it; you are home. You walk past the sparsely decorated living room slash kitchen, the wonders of a two room apartment, few walls. You continue past the answering machine, no blinking lights, no calls. There are no worried long since ex-boyfriends calling to see where you disappeared to.

You remind yourself not to be upset, but it's difficult to push your feelings back down after just releasing them. You want him to come back, you want him to _want_ to come back. You want him to care again. You're so sick of this back and forth dance from which you can't seem to shake free.

He's long since gone but you've been living with his ghost for months. You see his smile reflected in every stranger's smile, his shadow dances across your floor, his cologne twirling to you on the wind. No matter how far you run, you can't escape him.

As you crawl into your bed, still unmade since you left to meet him as soon as you got his call, you realize that you lost your jacket somewhere between apartments. You try to not care, tell yourself you can't be bothered, it was old and time to get rid of it anyways. But it does bother you because it was the jacket _he_ bought you for your three year anniversary. The jacket you wanted desperately but knew was eons out of your price range. And when you opened the box and saw it lying there between layers of tissue paper, damn him, it made you fall in love with him all over again.

Perhaps, you think with a grimace, to a degree you always will.

End

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Note: I hope it's obvious that the main reason it didn't work out, besides Sora's lack of feelings, was the fact that Riku was a whole lot poorer than he.

Fun fact: the "red-headed slut" was an amalgamation of Kairi and myself! (Only because I don't see her as being a "slut" despite my extreme dislike of her.)

Gah, this was a lot shorter than I would have liked… Damn. Also, I might do a second chapter or a sequel… Not sure yet.

So yea, thanks for reading!


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